Outside, Molly has been listening in. Molly enters the room and cuts between them. "Calm down, Henry. Don't take it so seriously. Bekkie's just a young girl who hasn't yet learned what life's all about."
"She's Devorah's granddaughter," Henry blurts out.
An odd wave of strength rushes through Rivkah at the sound of her grandmother's name.
"So what does that mean?" Molly sets him straight. "My mother never liked Rivkah much anyway. Besides, she's gone now."
"She's not gone," Henry's shoulders slump suddenly. "Who said she's gone? She's still here with us. And if we're not careful, she'll be with us forever! Molly, we'll all be doomed."
So every day Henry tries harder and harder to push Rivkah out of the world she grew up in. "Live a life. Join the clubs."
"I don't like them."
"Too bad. Be a person. A regular person!"
"Leave me alone," Rivkah pleads.
The next day Henry relents. He comes over to Rivkah softly. "You'll grow accustomed to everything, little by little."
God forbid, she murmurs that I should become accustomed to this.
This house and life have become a tomb for Rivkah. Naturally there is no Sabbath here anymore. And not in her old house in Borough Park either. Moshe has married a new woman, Helen, and to everybody's amazement, moved with her to California. Henry is delighted. Freedom at last. And more than that, with Moshe gone, Molly succumbs to his every wish.
And, of course, the new baby David sleeps peacefully in his crib without ever dreaming of where he is from, and what he carries with him. Each night Rivkah goes to this little brother, strokes his head gently and prays over him for God to come, bless and teach him who he is and what he has to do in this mad world.
David is an enormously beautiful, startling baby. People stare at him in his carriage as Molly wheels him by.
"See," she says readily to everybody, "the best of my mother is back with me. A light shines around him. Doesn't it, Rivkah?"
"Yes,"
"Just like my grandfather Berish. Wherever he went, a light went with him. People always stopped and stared."
But one day it's too much for Rivkah. "So, what are you going to do about it, mamma?" She calls out fiercely one afternoon. "Are you going to let him grow up like this?"
"Like what?" Molly is frozen.
"Mamma, mamma. There's no Sabbath here!"
"You're starting again with that?" Molly throws Rivkah a look that cuts like a filthy sword. "Now? Just when my life is becoming a life? Just when my family is growing strong?"
"Strong?"
"Two beautiful children, and they're growing strong. Growing firm."
"Mamma!" Rivkah is stunned. "Look at me. I'm not growing firm."
"Yes, you are. People like you. You were even invited to join the Pink Ladies!"
"Does that mean I'm growing firm?"
"Listen, Rivkah."
Rivkah feels slightly nauseous now. "Don't you dare call me, Rivkah. Not you."
Molly pulls back and grabs for the baby to hold for protection over her.
“ I hate you, I hate you,” Rivkah murmurs. “No matter what happens, God forbid I should become like you.”
Late that night, as every night, after her mother is finished with the baby, Rivkah slips into his room, sits by his crib and sings old Hebrew melodies to him. As she is singing that night, Molly walks in, stands by the door and listens for a moment. Then she flashes on the light.
"Don't sing those songs to him. I don't like it."
Rivkah blinks.
Molly has brushed her hair off her face, and is dressed in a gold satin bathrobe. For a moment, she looks like a statue, so calm and composed.
"It's a new world we're living in Bekkie. What's gone is gone. What's done is done. You must learn that."
Her voice is like silk and mixed with it is a kind of authority Rivkah has never heard from her mother before. Living here away from her family and the old neighborhood, Molly is beginning to thrive.
"I'm new, Bekkie," Molly goes on. "Brand new."
Then as if her grandmother were standing inside her, dark rage courses through Rivkah now.
"Finally free," Molly goes on chirping, like an empty headed bird on the loose.
But Rivkah can't stand it. "Shut off the light." She commands her mother," the baby is sleeping."
But Molly will not be overpowered anymore. She feels Rivkah's hatred and won't take it.
"Don't you dare talk to me that way." She flips her head back quickly. "You've always been strange. Always. Borough Park or here, you never fit in! You never will!"
Rivkah leans over and pulls the light blanket over her brother gently. "You have betrayed your people, mamma."
Molly simply stares in horror. "Get out of my room now."
"I won't."
"Get Out."
But Rivkah is stalwart. Words pour vehemently from her whether she wants them to or not. "You've betrayed your mother, father. ."
Molly cuts her off sharply. “And who are you, to dare to judge me now?" Like a cat she is fighting for her very life. "Since you were born, I wanted you dead."
The two of them stand in stiff amazement. The words themselves have escaped from Molly, cutting a cord between them that never can be repaired again.
Rivkah lurches back a few paces as if pounded hard in the belly.
"Bekkie, please," Molly murmurs, startled. "I didn't mean that.
You started up."
Rivkah keeps lurching backwards like a sleepwalker in a daze. "I'm getting out of here."
"You made me say this," Molly calls out through the door. "You wanted to hear it. Who needs a daughter like you? Hard on everybody. Besides, it isn't true anyway. I don't want you dead. I always loved you."
From inside his small crib, the baby brother starts wailing.
"Now look what you did! You woke up your brother! Bekkie, forgive me, please."
Way outside now, far down the corridor, Rivkah still hears her mother plaintively calling out.
"Bekkie," Molly is shrieking.
"Don't call me Bekkie!" she shouts.
"I won't. I won't."
Molly comes to the door, holding the baby and looking for Rivkah.
"Don't call me Rivkah either." Then Rivkah turns on her heel to the outside door, slams it and runs out.
Out on the street, it is sharp and cool. Rivkah runs fast without seeing where she is going. First she crosses one street and then the next. Soon, she is far away from where she started.
She jumps on the next bus that comes then and before long she is at Coney Island, where the huge waves of the ocean break wildly onto the shore with compassion for everyone.
Rivkah stays at the ocean for many hours. She sits unmoving on the sand and listens to the sound of the water. Then, little by little, she starts to breathe slowly, in rhythm with the sand and the sea.
Through the hours of the night that passes, the ocean itself becomes her mother and her father. The universe with its endless rhythms, hitting up against the timeless shore, enter her very being and reassures her that God is listening, and that all is well.
She sits like this until the dim light of morning breaks slowly across the sky. Then she gets up, brushes herself off and walks very slowly all the way back home.
When she walks in the front door, it is already mid-morning. Henry is with Molly in the living room. A stiff silence greets her as she opens the door.
"Where were you?" Henry stands up, frigid, as she walks in the room. Molly looks away.
"Out walking."
"Where?" Despite himself, his eye is twitching and a tear runs from it.
"Look how you upset your father," Molly says, still looking to the side.
"I was just walking."
"Don't ever do it again. You've upset your mother terribly. She didn't sleep all night."
Rivkah says nothing.
Henry goes on. "You think you're better than anyone else, don't you? Well, you're not. Y
ou think you're holding onto something that no one else has? That you're closer to God? Forget it. God is right here with us too. And he's even with the Italians, down the block. You'd better learn it and learn it fast! You're not in Borough Park anymore. And thank God for that."
Rivkah shudders. The violence in his voice clears all the cobwebs aside.
"It's a commandment to honor your mother and father. Your mother honored her mother, didn't she? All these years she never left her side. Now that's what it means to follow God's word."
"That's not what it means."
"Tell your mother you're sorry."
"I won't."
"Then you can't stay here with us."
"So, I'll go," Rivkah answers.
"Where? You can't go back to Borough Park."
In that horrible moment, Rivkah realizes it is so. There is no one there who would have her anymore.
"So, I'll go somewhere else. The mid-morning light that has been streaming in through the windows suddenly begins to burn inside her eyes.
"Where? You're only fifteen."
Fifteen? At that moment Rivkah feels as though she has lived through thousands of lifetimes, all simultaneously. She feels, in fact, as though from time immemorial, Henry has stood there opposite her, like a mountain, obstructing each turn of her mind.
"The very best thing to do," Henry says finally, "is to apologize to your mother and we'll let that be that."
"I won't do it."
"Then," he goes on swiftly, "with all your talk and all your prayers, you're really not God's child."
If I'm not God's child, Rivkah muses, then tell me, who am I?
CHAPTER 10
After that the days pass with the terrifying speed of loneliness. Rivkah goes to school and returns home like a shadow. She spends her afternoons closed in her room reading whatever she can get her hands on. Every day she speaks with the counselors at school about going away to college for early admissions. There are plenty of scholarships for a girl so bright.
Then one day a history teacher Rivkah likes very much hands her a small book wrapped in a paper bag. They are standing together in the hallway, right after the class has finished for the day.
"Read this. It will help you," he says to her gently. "And don't tell anyone about it."
Rivkah looks at the bag surprised.
"It's a special book. A few months ago someone gave it to me. It has meant a lot. Now I'm giving it to you."
"Thank you very much."
"You'll understand it better than I do."
She starts to open the bag slowly.
"Don't open it here. Read it at home. I can see that you need it. Good luck too."
This history teacher is a tall, lean man who lives alone a few blocks away. He teaches his classes with great sweetness and spends a lot of time in his office talking to all students who come to see him. Though she is in his class Rivkah herself has never said much to him directly.
"If you like it, keep it," he continues. "Otherwise, please give it back." And he looks at her keenly.
What is this book about? Rivkah wonders and puts it in her book bag. After all her homework is done for the evening, she reaches deep in and pulls it out.
It's a small, thin, almost tattered little book, entitled On Zen. What is this? She has no idea at all. Rivkah opens it up and ruffles through the pages. There are only a few words on each page. At the bottom of each page is a little poem. Quickly she reads one.
Sitting quietly, doing nothing
Spring comes,
And the grass grows,
All by itself.
Tears unexpectedly sting her eyes. She reads it again. And then again. The tears fall harder. Why am I crying?
She goes back to the pages to read them again.
Sitting quietly, doing nothing
She does and does not understand. In the mute distance of her memory, she hears Uncle Reb Bershky's voice chiming in. God is everywhere, sweet Rivkah. Only sit and wait for him.
Then, holding the book very tightly, for a brief, thunderous second, her heart and mind come to a stop. A total stop. Inside her there is the end of thinking, dreaming, or needing anything. The end of time and memories. The end of turmoil. The beginning of love.
For a precious moment, she sits there whole, perfect and complete.
Then her mind comes tumbling back. She is entirely startled. What's this? What just happened? Very quickly everything returns to normal. Or almost normal. But a little window has opened right through the middle of her mind. Fresh air drifting in.
All night Rivkah lies awake wondering. What's in this book? What happened to me?
This thin, tattered book becomes her constant companion. Although she has no idea why, she cannot put it down.
"Do you like it?" the teacher says to her in the hallway after class, a few days later.
The two of them are standing together outside of the classroom and the book is lying lightly on top of her pile of books.
"I don't know."
He smiles a little.
. "I don't understand it."
"You don't have to."
"I can't put it down."
"I thought so. Don't put it down," he says, firmly suddenly.
"Why not?"
"You need it."
"I know."
"And more than that," he goes. "It needs you too."
"Me?"
"Pick it up, Bekkie. Pick it up with both hands," his eyes are clear and direct. Then he moves away quickly, down the corridor to his next class.
After that, each night after school work she sits up straight in her bed and reads the book until she falls to sleep.
Along with poems, there are little stories of questions and answers between Zen students of old and their Masters. She reads them over and over, understanding nothing. Not even why she likes it so much.
In the morning, after reading the book, she awakes more refreshed than usual and goes off to school, a little light hearted even. Some of the others at school have noticed a change.
"What's happened to you?" some of the kids ask.
Rivkah smiles cheerily. "I don't really know."
Soon after Rivkah stops returning directly home from school. Instead, she gets on the subway each day and takes the ten minute ride to Brighton Beach, where she does her homework on the sand. As she rides along on the subway, she looks out the small windows at the different neighborhoods she passes through. They are all bustling in the middle of the afternoon, with cars, trucks and people scurrying this way and that.
The train does not pass by Borough Park though. It does not pass any synagogues, men in black coats, or women with scarves and shoulders like mountains that can hold up the entire world. That she has left a long way behind.
Slowly the train winds itself out across a narrow bridge, through the dumps, to the seashore. As you get closer you can smell the salt water in the air. Rivkah breathes it in slowly. The smell of the ocean greeting her makes the entire day feel worthwhile. That and the little book On Zen she carries with her everywhere.
It is very early spring now, still too cool for the summer bathers, so mostly she is there alone. She takes her shoes off as she reaches the sand, and crosses the sand to the jetties, climbs to the top of a long jetty, takes her books out of her knapsack and spreads them along the top of the rocks.
As the waves splash beneath her, she does her homework and doesn't look up until she is finished for the day. Then she stops, leans back, and greets the ocean. Thank you, thank you so much for always being here, day after day.
Now she packs everything away, takes her little book out of her knapsack, and reads another wonderful story to herself. This one is between a monk and his Master.
“Where have you come from?" the Master questions.
The monk cannot reply.
The Master laughs loudly.
End of the story. Rivkah laughs too. She has no idea why. Wonderful. Wonderful.
She laughs, embraces t
he entire ocean, jumps down from the jetty, picks up a stick, and with tiny motions, draws little pictures on the moist sand.They are odd little sketches of sandpipers who come quickly and depart.
Each day she does this after reading. Soon her strokes become larger and stronger. Instead of pictures they turn into letters. Words finally. Today she notices she is writing a sentence on the sand.
Dear Grandpa, Rivkah finds herself carving in the cold sand. She looks at what she has written, startled. Where are you grandpa? she calls then inside her mind.
Then she runs to her knapsack, pulls out a pen and paper and continues writing line after line.
Dear Grandpa Moshe,
Where are you? Sometimes I feel you're dead.
That will never do, Rivkah realizes. She crumples the paper and starts again.
Grandpa, it was so good to hear from you last time you called. Mamma gave me the phone right away. She knows how much I look forward to speaking to you, or getting a letter in the mail.
It is about six weeks now since I've heard from you. That seems like a long time to me. Does it seem like a long time to you?
I am glad you and Helen are still very happy. When my mother reads your letters she cries. I do not cry. I am glad you have Helen, and that you have found just what you want. As all the Rabbis say, it is hard for a man to be alone.
Of course, according to Uncle Reb Bershky, it is enough to love only God. It is strange in our new house in Flatbush. Here the days of the week are all like each other and nobody makes blessings, or prayers. Needless to say, this hurts me very much.
Grandpa, once again I am asking if there could be a place for me with you and Helen in California? I don't really need a lot of room. And who would it bother? No one knows me there. Or my mother and father. True, I do not want to leave my little brother, but my father has made a new rule in the house that I am not allowed to sing to him in Hebrew. He insists that David grow up to be just like everyone else.
Please answer my letter as soon as you can. I wait each day to hear from you.
About three weeks later, Rivkah writes again:
Dear Grandpa and Helen,
Three weeks have gone by and I still haven't heard a word. No phone calls either. Are you well? Has something happened? Have you received my letters? Please, just answer and tell me what's going on.
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